


Painful Blues

by AutumnInstead



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Blood, Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-24
Updated: 2014-11-24
Packaged: 2018-02-26 19:42:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2664038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AutumnInstead/pseuds/AutumnInstead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Are there any prayers?</p>
<p>No.</p>
<p>There's groping in shadows and your dead best friend's blood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Painful Blues

**Author's Note:**

> I wasn't going to do this but then Homestuck.
> 
> So here we are.

The pad of Gamzee’s thumb is cool and pulling against her skin when he runs it along the waistband of her pants. He wraps his fingers around the curve of Terezi’s hip, longer and more stretched than he used to be.

It was some time ago when Vriska turned away from her. Inches and inches, none of them are as small or as young as they were. Gamzee begins to creep his slow, cold hand beneath her shirt; Terezi doesn’t push it away.

“Do you want to get some motherfucking prayers said, sis?” He’s breathing deep and fast, something she can feel rise from his warm core. To feel as disgusted as possible, she needs to listen hard.

“There aren’t any more to say.” His hand has reached the underside of her breast and she’s running out of words. He might not want to let her move away, even if she does.

 “Oh,” he says. Gamzee peels up the hem of her shirt and stares, and a rumbling purr begins to generate beneath his words. “ _Sis_ , we have all the motherfucking prayers what got to be said.”

Terezi pulls her shirt up over her head so that he can’t; it’s the kind of resistance that feels like a brace against some heavy, fibrous darkness. And she can’t pull through those threads as well as she used to. Gamzee pulls his lean form up to its stretching maximum and places his hand on her breast.

“We got _all_ the motherfucking prayers.” Under his hand, the flesh of her sparse breast gives way. He watches with narrowed eyes, still in callow grey. She can’t tell where he is on the route to his peak, but his purring grows deeper, his breathing grows heavier. She feels herself begin to split at the sheath, but at least she doesn’t have to swallow the creeping oil of that so much, anymore.

 “Let go of my T1T.” The number enunciates fresh and cold, like a morning in the dark perigees. Gamzee freezes, purr hitching in his throat. He snarls through his breathing,  but Terezi continues, “You don’t have a prayer, you don’t have a god, and you certainly will not find them here.”

His mouth is open like a criminal disposal chasm, teeth wicked sharp against the depth of his mouth. His angled juvenile shoulders turn inwards towards her, fingers twitching back and forth. Terezi watches them carefully, but he decides to place his hand flat between her horns.

“But, here there’s being no prayer or nothing at all,” he says, his voice a hollow rasp.

Terezi doesn’t bother dragging her fingers along his skin in a mock tease but, instead, goes straight for the wiry softness that’s slipped from its base between his legs. As her claws sink into the slippery give of his bulge through his pants, he gives a whining squeal. She draws that out, long and thin, as she notes where he grows broad and, yes, is fully unsheathed. Though this proves only the most damning of things.

It’s horrible down to its unpleasant squish, and fluid begins to ooze through his pants as she squeezes. When Gamzee releases a seething growl, however, she drops his bulge on pure reflex, its elastic core leaving a memory of its shape along her palm. Terezi balls up her fingers before she stretches them out, again.

Gamzee is long and taut like a tree branch and, when he uses his limbs like this, he can make the most of the extra inches he has on her. Setting her naked back against the wall, she looks all the way up to his horn-tips. Empty height, of course, but his cast shadow counts for more. She thinks there’s something in that shadow, sometimes, but it blinks over to the side before she can grasp it.

Her breasts are pressed against his shirt, then, and his knee has slid between her legs. Breathing in tandem with him is so much more cloistering and base than this quadrant should be. And there’s little room for quips, here. Gamzee leans forward, purrs, and it shivers across her cheeks. Terezi waits for his hand to come fumbling and awkward between her legs.

It doesn’t, after he says “ain’t gonna be motherfucking using that for a while.” But vindication is small when it comes with the bleaching shame of disappointment. “But. We got…”

He moves quickly and in the time it takes Terezi to blink, there’s a small bottle in his palm. It’s dull from his sylladex, but the contents are a vibrant blue, still; that color sets somewhere deep, in places of leaves and gulches. Nature that she can’t really remember.

Gamzee smiles, a split across his facepaint, and Terezi could believe that the paint goes all the way down even though she’s seen him without it. That painful blue pulls from her.

All she can make is dots. There’s no point in asking Gamzee why he does anything. And out of his own mess of impulses and half-baked convictions, he uncorks the bottle with a flourish. That kind of warped delicacy he has is horrid in its sarcasm. Terezi almost wants to force him back into new-limbed coltishness. If he ever really had that.

She’s a little too late in making a grab for the bottle, and with a fine tip of his wrist, the blood begins to drip, viscous and blank. There’s a void between what the blood once was and what it now appears to be. Terezi doesn’t notice where it lands until she feels a trickling down her sternum. It’s strange, lukewarm nothing.

Gamzee has gone still, his eyes fixed and wide like he’s mesmerized. Whatever intentions he has, whatever cells of guile make up his cruelty, his fingers are loose and quiet enough that she can snatch the bottle out of his hand. It’s cool against her palm, still with its own established weight, but Terezi doesn’t hold it for long. She drags a scream from somewhere, more hoarse than she’s used to.

Sometimes Terezi Pyrope breaks things, if it’s the right choice to make. Vriska’s blood ends up a hap-hazard splotch, sad and glittering with broken glass. And that’s still better there than in his hands. Under her eyes, the pressure of tears rises and makes a teal film on the edge of her vision.

“Why do you have that?” The glass smashing made silence ring across the room, so Terezi’s voice is clear in its echo. “Did you drain her body? _Did you?_ ”

Gamzee’s hand is too light on her arm. “Only from what’s made by your motherfucking sword, sister,” he whispers. She shakes with a neat, inward clarity and wants to snap his fingers off, one by one.

“No.” Some things, though, keep circulating around the mind like a howling gale.

“It would all be sitting neat in her cold little motherfucking corpse if you ain’t stabbed her like you were going for some blasphemous untoward benediction.” His hand is firm on her shoulder, again, his thumb stretching out just enough to dip into the edge of Vriska’s blood. The hypotheticals of what he could do with that occur to her in a blanch.

She knows that his fingers will one day meet the blade of her dragoncane, but he takes her arm. Gamzee swipes the blood across her skin before she can stop him, moving from the top of one breast to the other. He stands back like an artist appraising his own work and purrs as she looks down at herself.

The smeared blue gives a word in Alternian script; an old word used in dogma and documents alike, and Terezi read enough when she was young to be able to recognise it. And whether Gamzee is aware of that or not, there’s _some_ kind of nasty reasoning filed away.

His purr is the type of purr that would be a pleasant signal if not for what it was. “I’m thinking that that’s all up and being what you are, sis.”

Like orphaned trolls don’t damage dead lusus pelts, she doesn’t touch the bloody word. “It doesn’t matter, Gamzee. It’s all dead. That means nothing.”

The smile he gives her is a closed mouthed facsimile of the way he used to look; Terezi ignores it and daintily picks up her shirt, pulling it carefully over Vriska’s blood. When Gamzee doesn’t move to stop her, she decides it’s a good place to leave it for now.


End file.
